


Float

by paroxysmalirony



Series: I ♡ Newport [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Absurd, Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Violence, Brothers, Child Death, IT - Freeform, Scary Clowns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 12:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12276690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paroxysmalirony/pseuds/paroxysmalirony
Summary: Jisung finds himself staring at a clown.





	Float

**Author's Note:**

> helloooo,
> 
> please check the tags before reading, as there are graphic depictions of violence in this work.
> 
> enjoy!!!

Our story begins during the month of October; when the once-green leaves adorning the great maple trees that line the cobblestone walkways of Newport’s central park have begun their descent to the ground to wither and die; and the clear cerulean blues of the sky have been replaced by varying hues of autumn grey, storm clouds looming dangerously over the town, waiting to flood the streets with rainwater.

Jisung loves the rain — always has — and it’s a fact that Mark, his older brother, couldn’t ignore even if he wanted to. He has come to associate the light pitter patter of raindrops against his windowsill with those of Jisung’s heavy footsteps climbing up the staircase before barrelling into his room, calling out the words  _make me a boat, Mark!_

Today is no different.

The very minute the sound of rain hitting the windowpane makes itself known, Jisung is standing beneath the arch of Mark’s doorway, paper boat making materials in hand and ready to go.

“Make me a boat,” Jisung demands, rushing over to Mark’s bedside.

The timbre of the child’s voice — although light — is enough to rouse Mark from his cold-induced slumber.

“What’s the magic word?” Mark mumbles groggily into his pillow before shifting in order to face his younger brother.

“Please, Mark?” Jisung pleads, round face tilted to match the placement of Mark’s. “ _Please_.”

Mark laughs quietly, his tired eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Jisung whines, tiny feet stomping on the carpeted floor. “We have to hurry because the weather man said the rain won’t last long!”

 _It’s Newport, there will be more rain_ , sits at the tip of Mark’s tongue, but one glance at the six year old’s face is enough to silence him.

“Alright,” Mark says with a sigh as he sits up. He can hear a few of his joints popping in the process. “I’ll m-make you a boat.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jisung hoots, happily jumping up in excitement before running over to Mark’s work station. He dumps the supplies onto the wooden table’s surface and turns to Mark expectantly. The latter has yet to move, too distracted by the rhythmic drumming of rain against the window’s glass surface. “Come on, Mark!”

Mark blinks, his eyes finding Jisung’s in the dim lighting of his room.

“Right,” Mark says, putting on a smile as he pushes himself out of his bed and away from its warmth. He joins Jisung at the table, slowly taking a seat in the worn-out desk chair. “Let’s do this.”

Jisung grins, watching intently as Mark’s steady hands go about with completing the motions of folding the piece of paper that is to become his very own boat.

“Did you get the wax,” Mark wonders, tongue between his teeth.

Jisung watches Mark add another careful fold to the boat’s structure before answering solemnly.

“No,” Jisung admits. “Not yet.”

He doesn’t _want_ to be the one to get the wax from its place in the cold, damp cellar. It was _scary_ down there, cobwebs and dust particles blanketing most of the dark space’s atmosphere in thick layers of grey that Jisung couldn’t stand to be around.

He doesn’t like it down there at all.

“You want her to float, don’t you?” Mark prods, finally looking away from the paper boat to give Jisung a measured look.

Jisung pouts, lower lip jutting out.

“Yes,” he nods, shoulders going up and down as he lets out a sigh.

“Go ahead and get it,” Mark then says, flashing Jisung a comforting smile. “I’ll put some f-finishing touches on her while you’re down there.”

“Fine,” Jisung huffs before turning on his heels.

“Don’t forget your walkie,” Mark warns, wrapping his hand around one of the two toy radios that sat on top of his desk. He places it in Jisung’s hands before reaching for his other. “Call me, beep me, if you wanna reach me,” Mark adds, speaking into the device’s receiver; his voice low and gravelly.

The reference is enough to elicit a series of light giggles from Jisung, who brings his walkie-talkie to his mouth and says: “ _Roger_. I’ll be right back!”

In a flash, the six year old is out the door and bounds down the creaky steps of the wooden staircase, socked feet hitting its glossy surface with soft thuds with every steps he takes.

“Mark?” Jisung calls into his radio once he’s made it down to cellar’s entrance. “Are you there?”

“Still here,” Mark assures.

“Okay,” Jisung nods, swallowing thickly. “Just checking. I’m going down now.”

“It’s just t-the cellar, Ji.”

“I know. Don’t go, though.”

“I won’t.”

Satisfied with Mark’s answer, Jisung pockets the small black device, reaches for the brass doorknob, and twists it.

The door opens at once, its creaking loud and dissonant as it cuts through the deafening silence of the Lee household.

As expected, it’s cold in cellar — enough that Jisung swears he can see his own breath go up in clouds before him in the faint stream of light pooling into the space through the open door behind him.

Jisung takes a tentative step forward, then another, and continues to do so until he’s finally made it to the base of the staircase. Once his trembling feet have at last made contact with the cellar’s cool concrete floor, he reaches to his left, outstretched fingers desperately searching for the light switch located halfway up the exposed beam to his left.

Jisung flicks the switch.

Nothing.

He lets out a shaky breath and begins to anxiously search for the wax in question.

Jisung finds it tucked between a dusty box of MegaBloks from the 80s and an old Korean textbook. And while he doesn’t remember leaving it there after using it last, Jisung doesn’t question it, as he is far more preoccupied with darting up the stairs and _away_ from the cellar.

“Got it,” Jisung breathes into his radio once he’s made it to the first landing.

“Right on time, too,” Mark says, his voice enough to calm Jisung’s overactive nerves with every syllable uttered. “I just finished.”

“ _Yes!_ ” Jisung exclaims. “See you in… _two seconds_!”

“See you,” Mark chuckles and Jisung follows the sound of his laughter until he’s back within the confines of the elder’s bedroom.

“Can I see?” Jisung asks as soon as the door to Mark’s bedroom is closed behind him.

“Sure,” Mark says, carefully peeling the paper boat from where it lies on the surface of his desk, and holds it out for Jisung to observe.

“Woah, it’s beautiful!” Jisung praises, excitedly running over to Mark’s work station.

“ _S-s-she’s_ beautiful,” Mark corrects, his stutter surfacing yet again.

Jisung blinks, frowning slightly as he looks up at Mark through his bangs. “Huh?”

“You call boats she,” Mark explains, smoothing down a fold along the boat’s length, careful not to smudge the bold letters adorning the off-white surface.

 _S.S. Jisung_ is what it reads.

“Why?” Jisung presses on, curiously crowding Mark’s space.

“You just do,” Mark shrugs, not minding the proximity at all. He turns to Jisung. “Now, h-hand me the wax so we can beat the rain.”

Using both hands, Jisung places the small tin of paraffin onto the surface of Mark’s desk and takes a step back, allowing his older brother to finish the job.

Mark pries open the tin and pulls out a paraffin cube, which he then places into the centre of the unused ashtray that sits on his desk along with many other gadgets, and sets it ablaze with the transparent lighter he keeps hidden inside his desk.

Once the wax has melted down to a thick consistency, Mark uses one of their mother’s paintbrushes to slather a generous amount of it onto the boat, waterproofing it.

“I love this part,” Jisung says quietly, taking a step closer to the desk once more.

“Yeah,” Mark asks, his focus unwavering as he flips the paper boat over.

“Yeah, it’s so cool,” Jisung adds, nodding fervently.

Mark hums. “Cooler than me?”

“Yeah, probably,” Jisung says, struggling to conceal the giggles that bubble in his chest.

“A-a-after everything I’ve done for you,” Mark sniffles, feigning disappointment. Jisung’s laughter increases in volume. “I c-can’t believe it. Guess I’ll have to throw this out now-”

“ _No_ ,” Jisung exclaims, making grabby hands at the finished paper boat before Mark can pull it away any further. “I was just joking!”

“I know,” Mark laughs, his tone of voice no longer teasing. He hands the boat over to Jisung. “Here.”

“Thanks, Mark.” Jisung beams, taking in the finished product’s appearance with a bright smile.

“Go have fun, okay?” Mark says in response, giving Jisung’s belly a gentle poke. Jisung giggles, nodding quickly, before turning on his heels, sprinting out of Mark’s bedroom once again. “But don’t go too-oo far,” Mark adds, calling after the six year old’s retreating back. “Stay where I can s-see you! And don’t forget your walkie!”

“Of course,” Jisung — now dressed in his favourite bright yellow rain coat — promises, poking his head inside Mark’s room. He waves his hand. “See ya!”

“See ya,” Mark says, waving right back.

With that, Jisung heads down the staircase, paper boat carefully tucked beneath the crook of his arm as he goes. In the dimly lit foyer, Jisung stuffs his socked feet into his green rubber boots; his second most prized possession, as they’d been Mark’s gift to him on his birthday earlier that year.

 _They’ll keep you warm and dry_ , Mark had told him upon sliding the neatly wrapped box across their dinner table that morning with an earnest smile.

It’s the kind of memory that a child of Jisung’s age might cherish deeply — which he does.

Much like his love for the rain, Jisung’s adoration for his big brother is the farthest thing from being a secret.

 _He’s my best friend_ , Jisung would often find himself telling others, the mention of his brother enough to summon a cluster of stars in his wide eyes.

And deep down, despite the nine and a half years of life between them, Mark would say the same.

“I’m going out now,” Jisung calls out over his shoulder, to no one in particular, before pulling open the front door and pushing past the storm door.

He pulls the door shut behind it and sets off into the downpour hailing over Newport.

As promised, Jisung doesn’t go far, choosing instead to set his boat down onto the rain-slicked pavement of the Lee family’s driveway. The rainwater’s current, paired with the pavement’s downward slope is enough to send _S.S Jisung_ on a speedy voyage down to the curb, where _she_ makes a sharp turn to the left and comes to a full stop, caught between the storm drain’s iron grills.

“ _No_ ,” Jisung shouts, spurring forward in order to save his paper boat.

After all the hard work Mark — who’d been fighting one hell of a cold — put into completing her, Jisung couldn’t dare lose her.

Upstairs, Mark watches Jisung from his bedroom window as the latter dashes towards the edge of the road and kneels.

Mark pulls out his radio.

“What’s wrong?” he stutters, his voice fuzzy as it echoes back into his ears.

Jisung doesn’t answer, causing Mark’s frown to deepen.

The elder leans forward, nearly pressing his nose against the condensed glass to get a better view of Jisung, who is currently lying on all fours, reaching into the storm drain with a look of fear on his round face.

“Come on,” Jisung says through gritted teeth, his fingers stretched out as far as he can manage. “Just a little further… _Woah!_ ”

This exclamation of forces itself out of Jisung’s throat as he reels — frightened and confused — and collapses onto his bum with a loud _splash_.

“ _J-j-ji, you okay?_ ” he can hear Mark ask him through his radio.

Much like the last time, Jisung doesn’t answer.

He isn’t sure if he’s okay at all.

Rainwater begins to seep into the material of Jisung’s jeans as he takes in the sight before him.

A pair of bright yellow eyes stare back at him from the pitch-black darkness of the storm drain. They’re the sort of eyes Jisung would often imagine seeing every time he went down to the cellar — cold and unforgiving.

“ _Jisung!_ ” Mark called again, his voice _almost_ lost within the sound of heavy rainfall. “W-w-what are you doing?”

Jisung blinks, pulling out his radio.

“It’s just a cat,” Jisung says, hopeful. “I think.”

“Cat? Leave it alone. You sh-sh… you _shouldn’t_ be playing around the storm drain.”

“Just a second, okay…” Jisung mutters, tilting his head to the side. “I just need to get my-”

“Hello, Jisung.”

The six year old’s grip around his walkie-talkie goes slack, the device falling to the pavement with a _sploosh_.

Jisung blinks the water out of his eyes and looks again, searching for the mysterious voice’s owner.

Rather than an empty, bone-chilling darkness, Jisung finds himself staring at a clown.

And while he may be six years old, and the lighting in the storm drain may be less than optimal, Jisung is absolutely certain of what it is that gazed back at him.

“You’re not a cat,” Jisung says, scooting back a few inches.

“Of course not,” the clown grins, its voice joyful and welcoming. “Do I look like a cat?”

Jisung frowns, leaning forward once more in order to peer into the storm drain and take in the clown’s appearance.

If Jisung were to compare the clown before him to any other clown, he’d say that it looked a lot more like Ronald McDonald than anything, only jollier. In its right hand, the clown held a cluster of multicoloured helium balloons; and in its left — Jisung’s boat.

“What a nice boat,” the clown says, bringing it to the light. “Do you want it back?”

Jisung nods. “Yes please.”

“Excellent. And how about a balloon?”

Jisung hesitates for a moment before shaking his head.

The clown coos. “What’s wrong kiddo?”

“My parents say I’m not supposed to take things from strangers,” Jisung explains with an apologetic shrug.

“Your parents are right, but I’m no stranger,” the clown says in response, leaning closer to the storm drain’s opening. “I’m Pennywise, the Dancing Clown!”

Jisung doesn’t budge.

“Tell you what. I’ll let you in on a little secret of mine,” the clown offers. “One that I’ve never told anyone.”

Intrigued, Jisung sits up straight.

The clown smiles, it’s face stopping less than an inch away from the drain’s opening. “My real name is _Jaehyun_.”

“You’re Korean?” Jisung gasps.

Newport’s Korean community wasn’t exactly small, but it was small enough that Jisung didn’t have any friends in his grade that shared his heritage.

And while he doubts that the clown in the storm drain is anywhere near his age, the familiarity is enough to fill Jisung with a sense of ease he wasn’t quite feeling before.

“Yes I am,” the clown nods, flashing its Cheshire smile. “You see, we’re one and the same you and I.”

Before Jisung can even open his mouth the speak, Mark’s voice can be heard from the radio in his hand.

“ _Ji, it’s been longer than a minute. Get back in here, or else you’ll get sick._ ”

“Who was that?” the clown, Jaehyun, asks.

“My brother,” Jisung explains. “His name’s Mark and he’s my best friend.”

“Best friend?”

“Yeah, so I better go. I don’t want him to be mad at me,” Jisung sighs, looking up at Mark’s bedroom window.

The heavy rain doesn’t allow him to see through said window, but Jisung knows his brother well enough to know that he isn’t going to be happy if Jisung were to disobey his orders.

“Wait! Does Mark like… cotton candy by any chance?”

“Yeah! How’d you know?”

The clown grins. “He sounds like the type.”

“That’s silly,” Jisung giggles, shaking his head. “You’re silly.”

“We’re all silly down here, Jisung,” the clown then says, tilting its head. “Don’t you feel it?”

Jisung leans in and for a moment, he swears he can feel it — hear it even, cries of horror masked by a powerful, enchanting veil, distorting them until they sound like nothing _but_ shouts of euphoria. It even smells like cotton candy, the sweet, sugary scent covering that of decaying corpses and sewer water.

Jisung is none the wiser.

“Woah,” the six year old breathes, eyes wide and alert under the clown’s piercing gaze.

“So whaddya say kid?” it says, yellow eyes gleaming even in the storm drain’s darkness. “You wanna come down here with me?”

Jisung seems to consider it for a fleeting moment, when Mark’s voice cuts in once more, saying: “ _Jisung, I’m coming to get you_.”

“I’m sorry,” Jisung apologizes, shaking his head quickly, wet bangs clinging to his forehead. “I _really_ have to go now!”

Jisung is pushing himself off the ground, his soaked through jeans nearly enough to weigh his tiny body down completely, when the clown speaks.

“Without your boat?” It says, bringing the paper boat — still dry and intact — into the light and closer to Jisung.

“ _Oh_ ,” Jisung exclaims, getting down on all fours. The clown smiles. “I almost forgot!”

 _Mark would be upset if I lost it_ , Jisung thinks as he frantically scoots closer to the rusted drain.

“Come on,” the clown says, coaxing him further. “Take it.”

Jisung reaches for boat.

The clown seizes his arm.

In that very moment, something in the clown’s face changes.

What Jisung sees is a sight too grisly, and far too monstrous to fully grasp, even for an imaginative child of his age.

It’s the product of his very own nightmares  — night terrors that often kept him up at night, panic-stricken in the darkness of his too-big bedroom — manifesting itself before him.

Gone is the clown’s saccharine smile.

In its place is a maw unlike anything known to man.

Row after row of jagged, razor-edged teeth — more than Jisung could ever dream of counting — slip out of the _creature’s_ blackened gums before biting down on Jisung’s forearm.

The boy cries out.

The sound is shrill and simply agonizing, piercing through the air as the clown rears its head, Jisung’s arm tearing away with a sickening tug.

Jisung collapses, his body falling on top of his walkie-talkie.

Upstairs, Mark’s own radio comes to life.

“ _Mark_ ,” Jisung cries, urging Mark to pause with his hand hovering above his doorknob.

“J-ji?” Mark mutters, fumbling with the material of his jacket in search of his radio. He pushes down on the button. “Ji… Jisung.”

Nothing.

Mark rushes over to the window.

He sees nothing but a stream of blood as it rushes into the storm drain.

“J-j-ji-ji-s-s— _fuck!_ ” Mark curses, his voice catching in his throat as he backs away from the window and runs towards his door instead.

Mark rushes down the staircase and nearly wipes out on more than one occasion.

He forgoes putting on any shoes, pushing past the front door and darts towards the storm drain.

The blood is gone and there is still no Jisung in sight.

“Jisung, please,” Mark stutters into the radio.

Nothing. Nothing but the beating of rain as it hits the pavement, taunting Mark where he stands as frantically searches the streets for one canary yellow rain coat.

Nothing at all, for Jisung Lee is dead.

Mark is none the wiser.

**Author's Note:**

> hey!
> 
> you guessed it, this is part of an IT au I recently started working on. since this is just a prequel (?), there is more to come soon!!
> 
> shout out to yami for reading this over ily
> 
> also you can find me on twitter @ladykiilua if you have any questions lmao
> 
> happy october!!!


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